Hands
The boy on the bus had beautiful hands, but I did not see them at first. He was holding onto a pile of records, of which I tried to read the title of the one at the top, but it had a strange design and was facing away from me, hidden under a red camera bag.
It was crowded. The blond woman who stood in the aisle between us wore a painted expression of impatience and utter boredom. A kind of thank-god-it's-friday-dom. I noticed that my sunglasses were terribly greased, and tried in vain to clean them, and it was when I looked up that I saw the glint in his eyes, staring straight into mine, before someone's coat brushed past my line of sight.
His fingers tapping to the tune of something I couldn't hear, and I watched, entranced by their rhythm and soundless dance. A musician. Piano? Drums? Guitar? I studied the movement of his thumb on his right hand, how it covered more space for each beat than his other fingers. Guitar, more than likely. Not a keyboardist. And so I stole a photo of his hands.
At the station, passengers flooded off, and he, too, got up to leave. A glance and half a smile, a subtle movement of lips which could have been any of "goodbye", "see you around", "au revoir" or "bonne journée" and I wanted to say, "I'm sorry, your hands are beautiful", but he disappeared down the stairs and I wondered why I remained in my seat when I have no idea where I am headed.
Posted by sniffles at October 11, 2002 11:35 PM